But I invite you to subscribe to my monthly Heart Tales Newsletter (http://www.hearttales.net/newsletter/index.html) which contains a story and a thought for reflection. Narrowing my publishing focus to just the newsletter will give me more time to focus on my study and storytelling with the Academy. I hope you will join the many people who enjoy my monthly newsletter so we can keep in touch.

May all your stories have happy endings!

Jim Cyr

After Dighavu explained his father’s dying words Brahmadatta stood before his council and said, “How remarkable is it for this young man to understand the depth of these short sentences. Listen to him, for he is wise indeed.”

Brahmadatta restored the Kingdom of Kosala to Prince Dighavu, its rightful heir and ruler. In time, Prince Dighavu married Brahmadatta’s daughter and the two kingdoms existed, side by side, in peach and harmony.

With this story, the Buddha helped the monks (and us) achieve awareness of their harmful thoughts. They welcomed his words (may we welcome them too) and learned to live together peaceably.”

Turning to Dighavu, Brahmadatta said, “Your father’s dying words have preoccupied my thoughts on many sleepless nights. Can you help me understand them. What did he mean when he said, ‘Be not short-sighted’?”

Dighavu answered, “The words mean cherish friendship. Do not be quick to fall out with friends.”

“What did he mean when he said, ‘Be not long-sighted’?”

“He meant, do not dwell on thoughts of past harm, for then hatred will endure,” said Dighavu.

“What did he mean when he said, ‘Hatred is not quenched by hatred; hatred is only appeased by love’?”

“”You Majesty,” explained Dighavu, “you stole my father’s kingdom and murdered my parents. If I avenged their death and killed you, then your kinsmen would kill me. In turn, my relatives would kill them. There would be no end to the hatred and bloodshed. But now, I have granted you your life and you have granted me mine. We can live together in peace.”

Next Time: “Restoration & Peace”

Fear eased its hold on Brahamadatta. “Grant me my life,” he said to Dighavu,”and I will grant you yours.”

Dighavu released his grip and set down his sword. The two men clasped hands and swore an oath never to harm one another.

“Let us go back to the palace,” said Brahmadatta.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” replied Dighavu.

When they arrived back at the palace, Brahmadatta called together his counselors. With Dighavu at his side, he addressed them and asked, “If you saw Dighavu, son of my enemy Dighiti, what would you do?”

The counselors raucously shouted their affirmations of loyalty. “Cut off his hands! Cut off his feet! Chop off his head!”

Then Brahmadatta spoke. “Listen to me,” he said, lifting his open palm toward Dighavu, “this is Prince Dighavu.” The astonished counselors immediately grabbed the hilts of their swords. “No harm must come to him,” commanded Brahmadatta.” He has granted me my life and I have granted him his.”

Next time: “The Meaning of Dighiti’s Dying Words”

Brahmadatta awoke in a cold sweat.

“What’s the matter, Your Majesty?” inquired Dighavu.

“I had a terrible dream, a dream that haunts me and that I cannot get rid of. In it, I learn that Dighiti, my enemy, had a son named Dighavu, who is coming after me with his sword raised trying to kill me and avenge the death of his parents.”

Dighavu grabbed the king by his hair and yanked his head back onto the ground. With his right hand, he grabbed his sword and raised it. “I am Dighavu,” he snarled,” I will kill you and avenge my parents’ death.”

For a moment, Brahmadatta looked uncomprehensively at the young man he had grown to trust–but then he saw the pain in Dighavu’s eyes, heard the hatred in his voice, and felt the angry strength of his grip.

“Please do not kill me,” he begged. “Grant me my life.”

Dighavu stared at him. “No you foolish king, don’t you understand? It is you who must grant me my life. For men can forgive those who hurt them, but they cannot forgive those they hurt. I will always be a reminder to you of your wrongdoing. You will see me as a threat to your peace of mind and your physical safety. You will seek to kill me so that you do not have to face me. No, my king, it is you who must grant me my life.”

Next time: Reconciliation

As he held the sword above Brahmadatta’s head, the dying words of Dighavu’s father echoed in his ears and clarified his thoughts: “Be not shortsighted. Be not long-sighted. Hatred is not quenched by hatred; hatred is only appeased by love.”

Dighavu lowered the sword and put it back in its sheath as tears streamed down his face.

Again, the anguish and anger welled up inside Dighavu; he could almost smell the ashes of his parent’s burnt bodies. He pulled the sword out of its casing and lifted it into the air. Amid the pain, he recalled his father’s last hour and pleas that came from the depths of his soul: “Be not shortsighted. Be not long-sighted. Hatred is not quenched by hatred; hatred is only appeased by love.”

With trembling hands, he put the sword back in its scabbard.

As Dighavu sat there, another level of sorrow surfaced. He keenly felt the isolation of his childhood, the loneliness of living in exile away from his parents, a separation made necessary because of the loss of his father’s kingdom.

He took up the sword once more. Again, his father’s words came back to him, words that were the only form of protection and legacy his father was able to offer. He could not dishonor his father by ignoring his guidance. He had to lay down his sword.

Next time: “Grant Me My Life”

Dighavu waited on the king; he always spoke politely and conducted himself in a pleasing manner. Dighavu’s keen intelligence and responsiveness allowed him to gain a position of trust with the king.

One morning Brahmadatta summoned Dighavu and said, “Today I would like to go hunting. Gather my huntsmen together. Harness my chariot and bring it around.”

“As you wish, You Majesty,” responded Dighavu, and he proceeded to organize the expedition. The hunting party gathered in the stable yard, and when Brahmadatta arrived, Dighavu gave him his weapons, escorted him to his chariot, and ceremoniously handed him the reins.

“You may drive my chariot today,” said Brahmadatta.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Dighavu led the men out of the gates of Benares, through the countryside, and into the forest beyond. As they raced through the tangled trees, Dighavu told the king, “Your Majesty, I am quite familiar with these woods. I know a better way.”

“Very well,” said Brahmadatta, and Dighavu drove the chariot away from the rest of the party, deep into the untamed woodlands.

After a time, Brahmadatta called out, “Stop, I am weary. Let us search for a place to rest.” Dighavu found a secluded glade and unharnessed the hoses from the chariot. Both men unbuckled their swords and sat down, side by side, underneath a banyan tree. “I am tired,” said the king. He rested his head on Dighavu’s lap and fell sound asleep.

Ddighavu looked at the king asleep in his lap. He remembered his mother and father being marched through the city streets and his feelings of helplessness and rage. From the shadows of his mind, there arose a menacing thought.

Slowly, he unsheathed his sword and held it above Brahmadatta’s head. “Now, I could kill you. I could satisfy my anger and avenge my parents,” he said to himself.

Will Dighavu finally take vengeance?

Next time:”The Up-raised Sword”

Dighavu often awakened early, before the light of day gilded the sky. It was his habit on those days to take his lute into the stable yard and play sweet melodies as he welcomed the dawn with a delicate song.

One such morning Brahmadd]atta, whose dreams had not allowed him to sleep, restlessly prowled the palace grounds. When he reached an empty courtyard on the far side of the elephant barn, the sweet sound of Dighavu’s music floated through the air and reached Brahmadatta’s ears. As he listened, the burden of his troubling thoughts slowly eased and drifted away.

The music stopped and Brahmadata returned to his bedchamber. Calling one of his servants, e asked, “This morning I heard a beautiful song that gladdened my heart. Who makes such music?”

His attendant replied, “The master of elephants has a young apprentice who is talented in many ways. I have heard that he likes to sing and play the lute. Perhaps it was him you heard.”

“I would like to meet this young man,” said Brahmadatta.

Later that morning, Dighavu appeared before the king. “Young man,” said Brahmadatta,” was it you who played such a sweet melody this morning?”

“I was singing in the stable yard this morning,” answered Dighavu

“Sing for me now.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” and Dighavu sang a tantalizing song that charmed the king.

Brahmadata wa impressed with the young man’s demeanor and abilities, and he said, “I could use someone of your sensibilities to wait on me.”

“As you wish,” Your Majesty,” replied Dighavu, and he became Brahmadatta’s personal attendant.

Another step closer to his father’s killer, will Dighavu avenge his father’s death?

Next time: An Opportune Moment

When the funeral ritual was completed, Dighavu walked deep into the forest where he wept and wailed unil all the tears had left his body. Numb and exhausted, he collapsed to the ground and slept for several days. When he awoke, the raw wound of his grief had hardened into resolve, and, in the dark recesses of his mind, a plan began to take shape.

Dighavu went into the center of the city and found Brahmadatta’s palace. He stood at the gates of the royal elephant barn and asked the elephant trainer, “How can I learn the art of training elephants?”

The master of the elephants looked Dighavu over and, judging him a capable young man, declared, “I will take you on as an apprentice and teach you how to train elephants.”

Dighavu learned quickly and his reliability and engaging manner endeared him to all who worked in the stables. Yet he kept his identity a secret, going by another name.

How will Dighavu use his new found position in the service of his father’s enemy?

Next Time: “From Elephant Trainer to Personal Attendant”

Dighavu could not leave his parents’ bodies disrespectfully discarded. As the soldiers stood watch, he went into the city and bought some strong wine. When night fell, he returned to the city’s edge and walking up to the soldiers said, “You have put in a hard day’s work. You need something to relieve the strain of your labors,” and he handed them each a bottle. The soldiers gladly accepted and soon lay drunk and sound asleep on the ground.

Dighavu collected pieces of wood and stacked them up. He dragged his parent’s bodies out of the dirt, carefully placed them on top of the pile, and set the wood on fire. With palms pressed together, he walked around the funeral pyre three times, as the flames rose high into the night sky.

Brahmadatta had received word of Dighiti’s execution. Restlessly, he paced his rooftop terrace, trying to grasp the meaning of Dighiti’s final utterance. He looked out beyond the south gate and, in the very spot where the corpses had been thrown, saw the fire.

As Brahmadatta watched the blaze, he became aware of the figure of a young man reverently performing a funeral rite. “Surely this must be a kinsman of Dighiti’s and he will seek revenge,” he thought to himself. “Is there no end to this?” he cried, trying to shake the cold fear that clutched at his heart.” I need someone who can help me make sense of all this,” he whispered aloud.

Will the feud continue?

Next time: “The Elephant Trainer”

Brahmadatta listened intently as the barber explained his discovery and revealed the whereabouts of Dighiti and his wife. The king’s hidden dread surfaced. Fearing that the royal couple were still plotting revenge, Brahmadaatta turned to his soldiers and commanded them, “Take this man with you. He will lead you to Dighiti and his queen. Arrest them, bind their hands, shave their heads, and parade them through the streets to the edge of the city. Execute them and leave their bodies for the birds of the air to prey on. I will be rid of these enemies once and for all!”

At the same time, young Dighavu was experiencing the pangs of longing. “I have not seen my parents for some time,” he thought to himself. “How I miss my mother’s sweet voice and my father’s encouragement. I must go see them.”

Dighavu left the countryside and made his way to the city. When he arrived, he spotted a commotion in the streets outside his parents’ home and, sensing trouble, pushed his way through the crowd.

Dighiti looked up and saw Dighavu’s face in the crowd. He did not want the army to detect his son’s presence. Knowing that he was was about to die, he also wanted to leave Dighavu with some advice that would guide him through the difficult times ahead.

In a loud voice he called out, “Dighavu, Dighavu. Be not shortsighted. Be not long-sighted. Hatred is not quenched by hatred; hatred is only appeased by love.”

The crowd jeered at Dighiti. “The man is mad with fear,” they cried. “He talks nonsense and gibberish.”

However, Dighavu recognized his father’s voice and he understood his warning. Silently, he ran along the edge of the crowd, staring helplessly at his mother and father as the soldiers marched them through the streets.

Dighiti saw his son’s pained expression and. worried tht he might try to intervene, called out again, “Dighavu, Dighavu! Be not shortsighted. Be not longsighted. Hatred is not quenched by hatred; hatred is only appeased by love.”

Dighavu heard his father’s words; he struggled to understand what they meant. He followed the soldiers out of the south gate of the city, where they forced his parents to knell in the dirt.

Once more Dighiti called out, “Dighavu, Dighavu! Be not short-sighted. Be not long-sighted. Hatred is not quenched by hatred; hatred is only appeased by love.”

His father’s dying words penetrated Dighavu’s heart. He stared in horror as the soldiers executed his parents, chopping off their heads and tossing their bodies onto the street.

What will Dighavu do with his father’s dying words?

Next time: “Is there no end to this?”

Unfortunately, events unfolded just as Dighiti feared. King Brahmadatta’s barber was from Kosala and had worked for Dighiti many years before. One afternoon, as the barber made his way through the busy marketplace, he spotted a familiar figure begging in the streets. Recognizing his former employer, the scheming barber saw an opportunity for his own advancement.

He secretly followed Dighiti through the crowds and found out where he lived. Then he quickly returned to Brahmadatta’s palace and, claiming he had important information, requested an audience with the king.

Brahmadatta listened intently as the barber explained his discovery and revealed the whereabouts of Dighiti and his wife.

What will Brahmadatta do with word of Dighiti’s presence in his city?

Next time: “A Father’s Last Words”

One afternoon, as Dighiti watched his son playing happily in the street, anxiety overwhelmed him. He explained his apprehension to his wife. “People can forgive those who hurt them but they often harbor resentment toward those they hurt. King Brahmaddata has done us great harm and he fears our revenge. I worry about Dighavu’s safety. If Brahmadatta discovers us, he will kill us–all three of us.

The queen pondered the matter for some time before she answered her husband. “I understand your concern. Let us send Dighavu to my relatives in the countryside. They will care for him and bring him up as a prince.”

With deep sorrow that pierced their hearts, Dighiti and the queen sent Dighavu away to live with his mother’s family, where he developed all the skills necessary to become a king.

What will happen to the prince in exile?

Next time: “Betrayed”

After a time, Dighhiti’s wife became pregnant. When the queen realized she was with child, she became distressed. Turning to Dighhiti she moaned, “How can I bring a child into this world. Look at this squalid hut and those crowded, filthy streets. Our child deserves to be raised in a palace with all the privileges of royalty.”

One day, a court priest arrived at Dighiti’s cottage. When he saw the queen, he folded his hands in reverent salutation and prophesied, “Fear not, the king of Kosala is in your womb!” The prediction eased the queen’s worries. She gave birth to a baby boy, whom they named Dighavu, the Long-Lived one.

Next time: “The Exile of the Exiled”

Brahmadatta’s army thundered across the land, the horses hooves pounding against the ground. When Dighiti’s watchmen felt the earth tremble beneath them, they looked out and saw Brahmadatta’s powerful army with their swords raised, emerging from a cloud of dust. They ran to inform the king of the terrible sight.

Dighiti realized that his puny forces could not resist Brahmadatta, and compassion filled his heart. He addressed his generals, “We cannot hope to win a battle against Brahmadatta. He will slaughter our people and destroy their homes. If we wish this kingdom to survive, we must surrender.”

Then he turned to his wife and said, “We must leave this place. If Brahmadatta finds us, he will publicly humiliate and execute us. Let us go to Benares. It is a big city and Brahmadatta will not expect us to flee to our enemy’s home. He will never look for us in his own city.”

Disguising themselves as wandering ascetics, they made their way to Benares, where they came upon an abandoned potter’s hut. They settled on the outskirts of the city. Every day, Dighiti went into the streets with his bowl and begged for alms to feed his wife and himself.

What will become of Dighiti and his wife?

Next time:”The Birth of a King?”

In the old days, King Brahmadatta reigned over the great and prosperous Kingdom of Kasi. The king lived in a splendid palace in the city of Benares. The monarch owned many treasures and commanded a mighty army.

Nearby, Dighiti the Long-Suffering, struggled to rule the tiny, poverty-stricken kingdom of Kosala. But Brahmadatta was not satisfied with his wealrth and lusted for more. Seeing the kingdom of Kosala, he thought to himself, “Dighiti’s army is weak and small. I can easily defeat him and extend my kingdom.”

He called his generals together, assembled the army, and rode out to conquer Kosala.

Will Brahmadatta conquer Dighiti?

Next time: “Dighiti’s Decision”

Once, an argument broke out in the community of monks who resided at Kosambi in India. The disagreement divided the community against itself. Accusations and insults flew back and forth until, unable to settle their dispute, the monks swarmed the Buddha like angry bees seeking his help in resolving their differences.

“Be wary of causing divisions,” the Buddha warned them. “Do not cling to thoughts of past harm. Respect one another.”

However, the monks did not fully understand his teaching and they continued to argue, reaching the point of violence. The people of Kosambi lost respect for the monks and withdrew their support. When this happened, the monks returned to the Buddha again and sought his counsel. The Buddha assembled the monks and told them a story.

Next time: “Story of the Past”

Casting the broken aside we lose a bit of our own soul, for when we cast them aside we cast a piece of our own humanity aside as well.

Accepting and caring for the broken we gain compassion, patience, and wisdom as the broken teach us about our own vulnerabilities and our need for one another.

The snows of winter melted and green grass poked through the brown earth. Wind-Rider sniffed the spring air and fidgeted in his stall. Pleased that his horse’s energy and spirit had returned, Azhar took Wind-Rider to the pasture and turned him loose.

As Wind-Rider frisked about, Azhar leaned over the fence and laughed with delight. One warm afternoon, Azhar decided to take the horse for a ride. He climbed onto the stallion’s back and the two trotted out onto the ridge.

A soft breeze tousled Azhar’s hair as Wind-Rider gradually picked up speed and galloped along the path. The familiar sense of power returned to Azhar, but now this feeling was tinged with a  deeper understanding of what had been gained and what had been lost.

When Wind-Rider inevitably grew tired, Azhar slipped off the stallion’s back without regret. He saw the ragged scar on the horse’s flank and didn’t cringe. The blemish was no longer a painful reminder of loss. Instead, it was a sign of endurance and a testament to what he and his horse had earned through perseverance.

Azhar reached out his hand and gently stroked the scar. Then he walked the horse back to the stable. Azhar and Wind-Rider enjoyed many more years of love and loyalty together, accepting each other’s brokenness and scars without reservation.

Azhar grabbed the old leather bridle and gently led the animal through the crowd. He slowly trudged up the hill, carefully guiding the gaunt stallion, and he recalled that night, so long ago, when Wind-Rider had fought off the bandits. The long-hidden memory of his panic surfaced, and he remembered how he shook with fear as Wind-Rider courageously rode through the darkness.

Azhar brought Wind-Rider into his old stall and wrapped the horse in a blanket. He called for the stable master. “Show me how to make a warm mash. My horse is starving.” He listened closely to the instructions, mixed the food, and held the bucket for the hungry horse.

That night Azhar slept in the stall with his horse. The next day, he spent hours brushing Wind-Rider’s dull coat and combing the burrs and snarls from his tangled mane and tail.

Azhar worked side by side with the stable master and learned how to care for his horse. He rubbed liniment into Wind-Rider’s aching joints, cleaned the animal’s damaged hooves, and spoon-fed him a special tonic that he made himself.

Each and every day, he came to the stable and tended to Wind-Rider’s needs. Working in the stable gave Azhar a great deal of satisfaction, and he was proud of his newly developed skills and abilities. Azhar found that he looked forward to spending time with Wind-Rider, and he rummaged through the kitchen to find special treats for the animal, bringing him carrots, apples, and lumps of brown sugar. Slowly, under Azhar’s tender care, Wind-Rider’s strength returned.

 Next time: “The Sign of the Scar”

Despite the cold, the townspeope sat on the benches and listened. “Let us fetch Azhar,” they said.

Two of the strongest men were chosen. They climbed the rocky path that led to Azhar’s mansion and pounded on the huge wooden doors.

Surprisingly, Azhar himself answered the door. He looked questioningly at the two men. “The bell rung. You have been summoned to the town square,” said the two men emphatically.

Azhar’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he understood that it was his duty to go. As he donned his fur coat, he asked the men, “Can you tell  me what this is about?”

“It’s about one of your horses,” they replied. Azhar walked silently through the chilly night as he followed the men into the village and up to the bell tower.

At the sound of Azhar’s footsteps, Wind-Rider’s ears flicked and the horse raised its head. The assembled crowd turned toward Azhar. An old woman stood up and, facing Azhar, spoke, “Look at your horse, Azhar! Look at Wind-Rider!”

Azhar did not move as he peered at the faded form of his once mighty stallion. He saw the scar, the rail-thin body, the matted mane and tail. He also saw the stable boy’s hands, one clutching the bridle, the other caressing the muzzle of the horse. He remembered a time when only he could clasp the bridle, when Wind-Rider bristled at a stranger’s touch. The villagers gathered around the horse and master.

The old woman continued. “This is your horse, a horse that remained faithful to you and saved your life. In return you ignored it. You must take Wind-Rider back to your stable. Azhar, you must promise to take care of your horse. You, Azhar, not your stable boy, not the stable master, must care for this horse.”

Azhar nodded his head, I will do as you say. I promise.”

What will happen to Wind-Rider back in Azhar’s care?

Next time: Healing

Azhar came to the horse’s stall less and less often, until finally he no longer visited Wind-Rider. With no one to ride him, the animal was turned out to pasture. Wind-Rider remained eager to run. The stallion’s pent-up energy surged beyond the limits of the fence. One day he came upon some downed fence posts, leaped over them and escaped into the wild hills.

At first, Wind-Rider was able to find shelter and food in those hills. However, an unusually harsh winter set in. He browsed the tips of pine trees and pawed the frozen earth looking for hidden roots, but there was little food to eat.

The outline of his ribs became visible through his ragged coat. The trees and rocks offered scant shelter from the bitter wind, and the horse’s bony frame shivered with the cold.

In desperation, Wind-Rider made his way out of the hills into town, looking for food and warmth. He wandered into the center of the village and began to scrape the rocky soil underneath the bell tower, searching for roots to eat. His hoof struck the bell rope and a single distinct note pierced the night.

As Wind-Rider continued to strike the ground, the bell rang out loud and clear. When the villagers heard the bell, they put on their coats and shawls, grabbed lanterns, and made their way to the town square. The night was chilly and damp; flakes of frost hung in the air. The villagers held their lamps high and in the glittering darkness tried to make out the strange figure under the bell tower.

“Who is there”? they called out, but received only a soft snort in reply.

“Why it’s a horse ringing the bell,” someone said, and they began to chuckle.

“It’s not just any horse,” said a young man. “It’s Wind-Rider.”

“No,” said a village merchant, “this can’t be Wind-Rider. Look at his dull coat, his tangled mane. Why, his ribs are showing.”

“Ahh, look again,” said an old woman. “No other horse has a dappled gray coat with a black mane and tail.” As the townspeople moved closer, the horse remained strangely quiet.

“But how can such a thing be possible? He is the favorite horse of Azhar,” said someone else.

“I work in Azhar’s stable,” said the young man who had identified Wind-Rider. He took an apple out of his coat pocket and offered it to the horse. As Wind-Rider chomped noisily on the apple, the stable hand grasped his bridle and related the story.

“One night Master Azhar and Wind-Rider were riding through the forest when they were attacked by a band of thieves. Wind-Rider trampled the bandits and fled to safety. He saved Azhar’s life, but received a cut to his flank from which he never fully recovered. He was never the same again and could not run as before. Azhar ignored him and turned him out to pasture. When the horse ran away, the Master never even went to look for him. He seemed relieved that the horse had disappeared from sight.”

What will the towns people do about Wind Rider?

Next time: Azhar’s Promise

Wind-Rider’s wound took a long time to heal. Azhar visited the horse daily but he did not linger long. The ragged slash in the horse’s flesh glared out at him, and he could not bring himself to run his hand over the horse’s blemished body. He relegated the task of grooming Wind-Rider to a stable boy.

Without the passion of those wild rides, his days dulled into a gray routine and he began to grow restless. “When will Wind-Rider be ready to ride?” he inquired of the stable master, his voice edged with impatience.

Finally, Wind-Rider seemed strong enough to be ridden. Azhar gingerly mounted his stallion, carefully avoiding the jagged red scar that had replaced the gaping wound.

As Wind-Rider galloped out onto the familiar ridge, his master felt the wind’s caress on his face. A delighted smile lit up his face as he closed his eyes and breathed in the fresh salt air. The stallion sprinted across the ridge eagerly with his head held high, but after a few miles, it was obvious to Azhar that his horse did not run with the same vigor and vitality as before.

Wind-Rider grew tired and slowed his pace. Azhar urged the horse on, but Wind-Rider began to breathe heavily and they were forced to return to the stable. Azhar was determined to regain the pleasure of those unruly excursions before Wind Rider was injured. Day after day, he took Wind-Rider out for short rides, hoping to build the horse’s strength, but the stallion’s stamina did not return.

The horse’s diminished might deprived Azhar of more than fearless rides into the wilderness. It was as if the slash to Wind-Rider’s flesh had allowed vulnerability to seep into Azhar’s life. Wind-Rider became a painful reminder of what Azhar had lost.

What will become of Azhar and his horse?

Next Time: “Escaped!”

One evening, Azhar and Wind-Rider were returning home after a long business trip. Wind-swept clouds sailed across the moon’s full face. Azhar decided to take a shortcut through the forest because they had been riding for most of the day.

Moonlight edged through the tangle of trees as Azhar guided Wind-Rider along the patch where shadows flickered wildly. Suddenly, six robbers carrying spears and knives jumped out from behind the trees. Three were on horseback and three were on foot. Two of the men rushed forward and tried to grab Wind-Rider by the bridle. When Wind-Rider felt a stranger’s hand on his bridle, he reared up, slashing the air with his huge hooves as Azhar held tight to the reins. His hooves smashed into the thieves and knocked them to the ground.

Another bandit ran toward the horse with his spear raised. Wind-Rider rushed right at him and toppled the outlaw with his huge, broad chest. Aware that the trees held danger, the stallion dashed forward and began to race through the forest. The mounted thieves pursued Azhar and his horse, but they were no match for Wind-Rider.

Sweating and out of breath, Wind-Rider reached the safety of the stable yard. Azhar quickly dismounted, but when he did, he saw that his faithful steed had been wounded. A horrible gash lay acorss the animal’s left flank. Blood pured out of the cut, streaming down its leg and matting the horse’s tail.

Azhar bellowed out for the stable master to come quickly. When he arrived, Azhar wailed, “Look at my horse. You must do something!” Azhar stood off to one side as the stable master tenderly washed and dressed the horse’s wound. He recounted the terrifying details of the evening’s events.

“You owe your life to this horse!” replied the stable master. Azhar stretched out on the straw in Wind-Rider’s stall to sleep but he could not close his eyes, for the night was punctuated by the pain-filled whinnies of his wounded steed. In the pale morning light, Azhar arose. He stared at his horse’s marred flank and shuddered.

How will Azhar treat his wounded horse?

Next time: “What Azhar Lost”

As the day began to lose its light, horse and rider cantered into the stable yard. Azhar did not call for the stable master to attend to his horse, as was his usual custom. Instead, he slipped from the horse’s back, gently clasped its bridle, and led the stallion into the stall closest to the house, the one that had remained empty for so long.

He took the currycomb and as he brushed away the dirt and dust, he could feel the beat of the horse’s heart, hear the rhythm of its breath. “You run as if you are riding the wind,” he whispered. “That’s what I shall call you: Wind Rider.”

After that, Wind-Rider was the only horse that Azhar would ride. He never put a saddle on the horse, never allowed anyone else to groom or ride him. When Wind-Rider heard Azhar’s footsteps in the yard, his ears pricked up. He leaned his head over the stall gate and greeted his master with a soft whinny. Every day the two would ride out into the untamed places. Fishermen watched as they galloped along the gravel beach where the surf crashed into the craggy cliffs. The villagers looked up and saw horse and rider silhouetted against the pale sky as they rode along the ridge. Soon everyone in that town knew that the dapple-gray horse who had run away from the red-sailed ship had found a home in Azhar’s stable.

What will become of these soul mates?

Next time: “What the Robbers Stole”

One morning, a huge three-masted ship with blood-red sails slipped through the mist and entered the harbor. A majestic stallion emerged from beneath the deck. The animal was restless after being confined and began to stomp his hooves and tug on the reins that were held tightly in his trainer’s hands.

The horse reared up on its hind legs and uttered a shrill whinny that pierced the damp air. The people on the wharf turned toward the sound. Through the fog they saw a horse quite unlike any they had ever seen before. It was dapple-gray with a jet-black mane and a tail that curled like ocean waves. It stood so tall that its obsidian hooves seemed to scrape the sky.

The trainer enlisted the help of a nearby sailor. The sailor grabbed hold of the bridle while the trainer gripped the reins. With great difficulty, the two men led the uneasy horse onto the dock and up the path toward the village.

When the horse sensed the openness of the market square, it lurched forward and broke free from the men’s grasp. The gray stallion charged through the village and galloped up the path that led to Azhar’s house.

When the stallion broke free, Azhar watched from the edge of his veranda. The horse raced up the path, its reins flapping in the air. Azhar could see the strength ripple through its muscles as his mighty hooves hammered against the earth. His keen gaze followed the horse as it rounded the bend and climbed the rocky incline toward his house. It showed no signs of stopping. Azhar took a deep breath and opened his doors wide. The horse bounded up the porch steps and bolted into the house.

In a whirlwind of fury, the stallion thrashed and kicked, smashing tables and splintering chairs. Azhar crept across the threshold and inched his way toward the horse. The horse snorted and stomped its foot. Azhar held his breath and did not move. When the stallion finally raised its head toward Azhar, the man tentatively stretched out his hand and gently stroked the horse’s velvety muzzle.

Azhar leaned over, caught the reins, and vaulted onto the horse’s back. He urged the stallion through the open doors and the horse leapt off the porch. Together they rode out onto the ridge that overlooked the sea. Azhar felt the echo of the surf in the hoof beats of the horse as it thundered across the ground. They left the path and rode into the wild hills. The horse never tired. Time disappeared for Azhar. He felt as if nothing in the world could harm him.

What will Azhar do with this wonderful horse?

Next time: “Wind Rider”

Over the next several posts I am going to share a story of possibility, a story that shows what is possible when the broken are accepted rather than cast aside. I am calling this story “The Scars of a Friend” it is a condensed and adapted version of a story called “Catch-the-Wind” from a wonderful book by Lorraine Hartin-Gelardi called Wisdom in the Telling. Finding Inspiration and Grace in Traditional Folktales and Myths Retold.

So let’s begin the story of “The Scars of a Friend”

Once there was a village rooted in rugged, green hills that reached into the sea like stony fingers. Their rocky banks sheltered a busy harbor with ships that sailed to and from nearby ports. The people of this town were fair-minded and wished to live together peacefully. In the center of town, they constructed a simple tower made of four sturdy timbers, topped by a red-tiled roof. Inside the tower they hung a large bell with a rope that dangled onto the ground. Around the bell tower they placed a row of solid wooden benches. “Anyone of us who feels wronged can come and ring this bell,” the people declared. “When the bell rings, we will gather on these benches, listen to the person’s story, and settle the dispute.”

Outside of the village, perched on a hill that rose high above everything else, stood the magnificent house of the wealthy merchant Azhar. At the front of the house, two ornately carved wooden doors opened out onto a wide porch made of thick oak planks. Tall cedar pillars stretched from the porch like ancient trees to support the great tiled roof that capped the house. Azhar could hear the faint peals of the bell from that porch. He knew what the pealing of the bell meant and accepted its necessity, but he never joined the villagers. He preferred to stand on his porch and peer down into the town to observe the comings and goings of the people below.

Azhar surrounded himself with valuable things. His house was filled with fine brocades, gold and silver plates, exquisite works of art. Azhar was very proud of all these possessions, but nothing gave him more pleasure than his stable of horses. His stable was almost as grand as his house and contained the finest horses in the land. Each animal was a flawless specimen of a particular breed. All the stalls, save one, were filled. Azhar was still searching for the perfect horse to occupy the empty space.

Will Azhar find the perfect horse? If he does, how will it affect his life?

Next time: “The Meeting”

We observed that your past is not your future when you:

1. Understand that you can’t solve your problems with the same old thinking.
2. Accept that life isn’t fair. It’s what you make it.
3. Know that hurting people hurt people and you forgive to be free
4. Admit that abuse leaves scars and you get help to heal.
5. Accept that you will screw up and determine that you will fail forward.
6. Find your “one thing” and pursue it with passion.
7. Live one day at a time with faith in your Higher Power.

We said that you have the power to change the direction of your life. That power comes from the choices you make from this moment forward.

You can’t change the past, but you don’t have to replay it in your mind over and over or repeat it in your behavior again and again. Remember: “live out of your imagination, not your history.

You can imagine a different future for yourself, a future that is totally unlike your past. Once you imagine a different future you have the power to choose it or lose it.

Your past is not your future. If you believe it you can achieve it.

As the poor man sat at his table he saw his new sword hanging in its sheath, and he had a clever idea. First, he made a sword of the same size and shape of wood, like the kind he had when he was a child, and put it in the sheath. Then he took the king’s sword and sold it. The money he got for it was enough to live on until the end of the month. After this he went to the market and bought food and drink for himself and his wife and returned home, a happy man.

What a surprise it was for the king that night, when he returned to the Jew’s house and found him sitting as usual, singing his happy songs in praise of God, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world.

The king asked him what he had done that day, and the man told him all that had happened

Then the king said:

“And what are you going to do if the king finds out about the sword?”

The man replied:

“I don’t worry about things that haven’t happened yet. I simply trust in God not to abandon me, and my confidence in him is strong.. Blessed be God, day by day.”

The next day, when the palace guards came to their posts the king ordered that they report to the city square, for there was to be an execution that day, and it was the custom for all the citizens to see the sentence carried out.

When everyone was gathered and the execution was about to take place, the king ordered that the Jew be called upon to cut off the head of the condemned man, who had stolen a melon from the palace garden.

Now when he heard this, the Jew became very afraid and said to the officer who had given him the order:

“Do not ask me to do this, for I have never even killed a fly!”

The officer said:

“It is an order of the king you must obey, and if you do not, it will cost you your life!”

When the Jew saw there was no escape, he asked to be given a few minutes to pray to God to give him courage, and then he would do as he was told.

The Jew stood up in front of the large crowd and prayed silently. After this he lifted his eyes to heaven and said in a loud voice:

“My Lord, you know me very well, and you know that I have never killed anyone in my whole life, and now I am commanded to do so by force. Please Lord, if this man in front of me is guilty, let me take my sword from its sheath and cut off his head with a single blow. But if he is not guilty, let my sword turn to wood as a sign of his innocence.”

By then all eyes were on the Jew. He reached into his sheath and pulled out his sword and held it up high. When everyone saw that it was wooden, the crowd gasped and then clapped and cheered, for they assumed a miracle had taken place.

The king was delighted when he saw the wisdom of the Jew, and he called him over and said:

“Do you recognize me?”

The Jew looked at the king closely and at last he said:

“You are my guest! It is you who has visited my home four times!”

And the king said:

“That’s right, and from now on you will be my guest, for I see you are a man of wisdom, whose confidence in God is strong and unwavering. I intend to make you my royal advisor.”

So it was that the Jew and his wife came to live in the palace where the Jew became the trusted advisor of the king. And all this came about because of his unshakable confidence in God. Blessed be his name, day by day.

Fear freezes you in your tracks. Faith in God allows you to live one day at a time, dealing with each day’s challenges confidently, because you know you have a Higher Power helping you.

The past is not your future when you live one day at a time with faith in your Higher Power.

—

Next time: “Putting it all Together.”

What set me free from fear is faith in my Higher Power. Faith that as I live one day at a time God will take care of me.

I believe that for the past not to become your future you need to live one day at a time with faith in your Higher Power.

How do you do that? Here’s a story that show’s how. It’s a traditional Jewish folktale called “The Sword of Wood,” and it goes like this:

Long ago, on a hot summer night in Morocco, the king could not sleep. So he decided to leave the palace and go out into the city for some fresh air. He took off his royal pajamas, the ones with the crown on the pocket, and put on the work clothes of a peasant. He went by himself to wander through the streets of the city.

At first he went to the center of town, and from there he walked until he reached a poor section on the outskirts of the city. After a while the heat began to bother him, and he noticed that one of the houses had a light in the window from which was coming a pleasant singing voice.

The king came closer and peered through the window of that house, and he saw a man sitting at the table beside his wife. On the table were different kinds of fruits and salads and a small bottle of wine. The man drank a glass of wine, tasted the fruits, and sang praises to God. The king stood at the window for a few minutes, amazed at the peace of this poor man, and he wondered why this man was so joyful.

So the king knocked on the door, and when the man inside asked who it was, the king told him that he was a wander, and asked if he might be accepted as a guest. The man opened the door, invited the king inside, and offered him food and drink, while the man himself continued his joyful singing.

After a while the king asked his host,

“What do you do for a living?”

The man replied:

“I am a poor Jew. I wander the streets during the day and fix shoes. With whatever I earn I buy enough for my wife and me to eat for that day.”

And the king said:

“But what will happen when you get old and won’t be able to work?

The man said:

“I don’t have to worry, for there is someone who looks out for me.”

This reply surprised the king, and he said:

“Who is this guardian? I see you and your wife are home alone and that you don’t have any children. And even if you had children this very day it would be many years before they grew up and were able to take care of you.”

At this, the man laughed and said:

“It is not a man who protects me, but God, blessed be his name, day by day.”

The king laughed when he heard this and he got up and said:

“It is late and I must go. But if I come here again, will I be welcome?

The man smiled and said,

“Yes my friend, you are welcome here any time.”

The king went back to his palace and decided to test this man, to see how he would fare in times of trouble. So he issued a command forbidding anyone to fix shoes in the streets.

The next day, when the Jew got up and came to the city, he was astonished to see an order of the king denying him his livelihood.

Then he lifted his eyes to heaven and said:

“God, the door to my livelihood has been shut. But I am confident that you will open another one to take its place.”

And when the man opened his eyes and looked around he saw a man carrying a water jug, and he said to himself: From now on I will be a water carrier.

So he went to the market and bought a water jug, and then he went to the well and filled it and carried it into town until he found someone who needed water. He did this all day long. By evening he found that he had as much money as when he had been a shoemaker. So he went to the market and bought food and drink for himself and his wife and returned home a happy man.

That night the king returned to the house of the Jew to see how he was doing after the order had been given. And the king was astonished when he peered through the window and saw the man as happy as ever.

So the king went to the door and knocked, and the man invited him in to join them at the table.

The king said:

“What did you do today? For surely you saw the command of the king?’

The man replied:

“Blessed be God, day by day. He did not abandon me. The king closed one door to me. But God opened another one in its place.”

And he told the king about how he had become a water carrier and how well his work had gone.

After a while the king said, good-night and returned to the palace. The next day he gave an order that made it forbidden for water to be sold to anyone, from then on each person had to draw water for  himself.

When the Jew returned to the well, he discovered that his new occupation had been outlawed by the king. While he stood there, trying to think of what he might do, a group of woodcutters passed him by on their way to the forest to cut wood.

He asked them if he might go with them and cut wood to earn his daily bread, and they welcomed him.

So it was that he worked hard all day long cutting wood. In the evening, after he had sold what he had cut, he found he had earned as much as he did when he was a shoemaker and a water carrier.

That night the king returned to the house of the poor Jew, curious to know how he had done that day. The poor man told the king about his work as a woodcutter. And when he learned that the Jew had found a new occupation, he decided on a new plan to test the man.

The next morning the king ordered the captain of the guards to come to him, and he said:

“Take your soldiers to the road that leads to the forest, and stop all woodcutters who pass by. Bring them to the palace. Then dress them as palace guards and give them swords, and order them to guard the palace.”

The captain obeyed the king’s command and among the woodcutters who were brought to the palace was the Jew. The woodcutters were made to guard all day long, and in the evening were all sent home with their new uniforms and swords. But they were not paid anything, for the guards received their wages only once a month.

So it was that the Jew returned home empty-handed, and he was very puzzled. For he did not have enough to live on for another day, much less for another month.

—

How will the woodcutter handle this new challenge? Come back tomorrow for the rest of the story and find out how to live one day at a time with faith in your Higher Power.

Michael Jordan, Yo Yo Ma, Paula Abdul, Albert Einstein, Michael Jordan, Bill Gates, Barack Obama, Sonia Sotomayor, J.K. Rowling, Martin Luther King, Jr.

What all these people have in common is that they found their “one thing,” their purpose in life, and pursued it with passion.

For Michael Jordan it was basketball, for Yo You Ma it is the cello, for Paula Abdul it is singing, for Albert Einstein it was the theory of relativity, for Michael Jackson it was singing and dancing, for Bill Gates it is computer software, for Barack Obama it is public service, for Sonia Sotomayor it is the law, for J.K. Rowling it is writing, for Martin Luther King, Jr. it was racial equality.

Each of these people found the “one thing” above all else that was important to them and they pursued it with everything they had, without giving up, keeping their goal in mind even when everything was going wrong.

When they found their “one thing” and pursued it with passion they made something of themselves and made a difference in the world.

So how do you discover your “one thing” and pursue it with passion?

I don’t have a pat answer because the road to discovering your “one thing” is different for everyone. Everyone’s life is unique. Everyone’s interests and abilities are different. But here are some important questions to ask that will start you on your journey of discovery:

• What is important to me?
• What am I willing to sacrifice for?
• What has changed me that I can pass on to others?
• What unique talent, ability, perspective, do I have that will make a difference in the lives of other people?
• What was I created to do?
• What gifts and abilities do other people see in me?
• What do I want people to remember me for when I am dead?

When I asked these questions of myself I discovered that my “one thing” is the telling of stories of healing, wisdom, and faith that help people on their journey to wholeness.

I have been pursuing my “one thing” for several years now. I am far from famous or powerful, but I know I have made at least a small difference in the lives of many people. If I die today, the world will be a better place because I pursued my “one thing.”

How about you? What’s your “one thing?” Are you willing to pursue it with everything you’ve got?

A thousand candles can be lit from just one candle; the life of the candle is not shortened. The Buddha

Your past is not your future when you find your “one thing” and pursue it with passion.

—

Next time: Your past in not your future when you live one day at a time with faith in your Higher Power.

I am intimately acquainted with failure. I did not make many the little league team. My first marriage ended in divorce. Two different careers ended abruptly because I was having personal and mental health problems. I’ve had to come back from two serious mental health crises.

But I know that failure is not unique to me. Because we are  human, everyone fails at one time or another. We all screw up.

There are two important lessons I’ve learned from failure. The first lesson is summed up in the words of a Japanese proverb: “fall down seven times, stand up eight.”

Every time I have fallen I have gotten up again. Persistence, determination, and perseverance conquer failure. In my first post in this series I said “life isn’t fair, it’s what we make it.” Life is hard and sometimes unfair. It will knock you down again and again. The secret to success is getting back up.

As a young woman, J.K. Rowling gave up her dream of writing novels to study something more practical. She ended up as an unemployed single mom “as poor as possible to be in Modern Britain without being homeless.”

But during this rock-bottom time, she realized she still had a wonderful daughter, an old typewriter, and an idea that would become the foundation for rebuilding her life. Perhaps you’ve heard of Harry Potter? “You might never fail on the scale I did,” says Rowling, “But it is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all–in which case, you fail by default.”

You will screw up. You will fall down. Fall down seven times, stand up eight.

The second lesson failure has taught me is this: “fail forward.”

Every time I have failed I have learned something about myself and the causes(s) of my failure.

When we learn from our failures and apply what we’ve learned we “fail forward,” we grow and improve as human beings. Good people are good because they have come to wisdom through failure. Success does not consist in never making mistakes, but in never making the same one a second time.

“Failure should be our teacher, not our undertaker. Failure is delay not defeat. It’s a temporary detour, not a dead end.” Dennis Waitley

There is no shame in failure unless we fall and choose not to get up or we fail and refuse to learn from our mistakes. You will screw up! Fail forward!

—

Next time: Your past is not your future when you find your one thing and pursue it with passion.

When I was very young I was sexually abused by my mother and uncles. I managed to hold my life together until I was twenty-six. But from age twenty-six for the next twenty years I had all sorts of problems in my marriage, family, and career until I finally got help for the abuse I experienced as a child.

What kinds of scars did the abuse leave behind? Feelings of anger, worthlessness, helplessness, and depression; thoughts of suicide, trust issues in my relationships, marriage problems and mental illness.

When we are scarred by abuse we can

• Kill the pain by medicating it with booze, drugs, thrill seeking, sex, cutting, or over-eating.
• Shout the pain by acting it out through defiance, risk taking, bullying, aggression, or violence.
• Blame the pain by inflicting it on those we think caused it by treating them with anger, rejection, physical abuse, or punishing them with our own suicide.
• Or we can heal the pain by getting help. Asking for help is a sign of strength. The journey from abuse to wholeness cannot be walked alone. You need a wise companion.

A lot of people say they want to get out of pain but they aren’t willing to make healing a high priority. They aren’t willing to look inside to see the source of their pain in order to deal with it.

Where can you look for help to heal? Find a trusted family member or adult, a clergy person, teacher, guidance counselor, youth leader, social worker or counselor. Do a web search for the type of help you are looking for.

How high a priority are you willing to make healing?

Abuse leaves scars, get help to heal or you will be another hurting person hurting people!

Hurting people hurt people. Forgive to be free!

—

Next time: The past is not your future if you accept that you will screw up. Fail forward!

For you not to get stuck in the past in which you have been hurt by people you you have to know that hurting people hurt people.

What do I mean by hurting people hurt people?

People who have been hurt and are in emotional pain hurt other people. People who have been abused, abandoned, emotionally wounded, often express their anger and pain in unhealthy ways that hurt other people. They may abuse, abandon, criticize, judge, and betray you just as others did to them. They may self-medicate with substances that distort their judgment and cause them to use you for their own ends.

Taking their pain out on you is not fair. But you have a choice as to how you will respond to hurting people and the pain they inflict on you. You can choose to be bitter or you can choose to forgive and be free.

When you harbor bitterness toward people who have hurt you you freeze-frame your life at the moment the pain was inflicted, You become stuck in the past. When you forgive you the people who hurt you, you set yourself and them free to heal, free to move into the future and leave the past behind.

I know of no better story about responding to hurt than the story of “The Sack.”

Once upon a time in a little village, in a beautiful green valley, set between two purple mountains, there lived a poor woman named Judy. Each morning, when the sun rose over the mountains, Judy would leave her little hut and go about her daily chores. She fed the chickens and picked the eggs, milked the cows, and tended the garden. But there was something strange about Judy. For wherever Judy went she always carried a large sack slung over her shoulders.

You see, one day, when she was young, some boys of the village made fun of her by calling her names. “Fatty, fatty two-by-four! Can’t fit through the bathroom door!” When she called them names back, “Moe, Larry Curly, you look like a girly,” they did her one better by throwing stones at her. Since the boys were far to fast for her to catch and far too big for her to fight, she instead picked up all the stones they had thrown and put them into a sack she was carrying. When she got home, she carefully marked the name of each boy on each stone they had thrown.

As the days followed and the name calling continued, Judy carefully collected each stone and marked them with the person’s name that had thrown it. Unfortunately, Judy lived in a time and in a place where everyone was given to throwing stones. Each time a stone was hurled, whether by a child or an adult, Judy found it and named it. Slowly her collections of stones began to grow.

Because the people of the valley knew what she was doing, Judy worried that they might sneak into her hut while she was away and scatter her stones. So each day she carried her sack, and each night she named and sorted her stones. Her daily load got heavier and heavier.

One day the king came to the village to pick a new judge over the people. He picked Judy. She was to be the judge in all matters concerning the king and the kingdom. Dressed in her judicial robes, Judy sat in judgment over all the people of the valley.

After a while, one by one, the people of the valley all came before Judy for judgment over one thing or another. After the charge was read, Judy reached into her sack and pulled out all the stones with the offender‚s name on them. “Five stones in the sack—five years in prison. Eight stones in the sack—eight years in prison. A year in prison for every stone in my sack with your name on it.” There were 490 stones in all.

Strangely, however, as the sack got emptier, it never got lighter. In time there were no more stones in the sack, nor people in the valley. There were no more bakers to bake bread or farmers to grow food. No cobbler to fix shoes or tailor to sew clothes. There was no one to talk or eat with. And there was no one for the king to collect taxes from.

Judy had given out justice. It made her feel good but she was not happy. She was alone and lonely. One morning as she sat at her window watching the sun rise over the mountains, Judy decided she must do something before it was too late. She dressed in her judge‚s robes and went to the village square. There she ordered that all the prisoners were to be set free. The occasion was celebrated with a great feast in the village square. There was eating and drinking and joy among the people. Judy walked freely among them, giving greetings and wishing them well.

Suddenly, a man who was still angry with Judy, shouted a curse at her and followed it with a stone. A hush fell over the crowd. Judy reached down and picked up the stone. Once again, as she had done so many times in the past, she carefully wrote the man’s name on it and put it into his sack. Turning slowly, she looked into the eyes of all the villagers. Then she lifted the sack as if to sling it over her shoulder. Instead, she began to swing it around and around and around over her head. Finally, she hurled it off into the distance. The crowd cheered and shouted.

From that day on, Judy never carried her sack again. From that day on, there was never any need for her to.

Is it time to let go of your “sack?” Is it time to forgive the hurting people who have hurt you? Is it time to forgive yourself for the hurt you have caused others so you can be free?

Hurting people hurt people, forgive and be free! If you do your past will not become your future.

—

Next time: Your past is not your future when yuo admit that ause leaves scars and you get help to heal.

On top of my physical problems I was sexually abused as a child and my parents were always dragging me into the middle of their fights. Life just wasn’t fair and I was darn angry about it.

But all my anger about the unfairness of life did was sink me into depression and at times caused me to feel suicidal. Then one day I realized that I cannot control the hand life deals me but I can control how I play that hand. I can control my attitude.

Viktor Frankl is a prime example of this.

On September 25, 1942, Viktor Frankl, a psychiatrist from Vienna, was arrested and deported to the Theresienstadt concentration camp, along with his wife and parents. Here’s what he wrote about that experience in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning:

Most people in a concentration camp believed that the real opportunities of life had passed . Yet in reality, there was an opportunity and a challenge. One could make a victory of those experiences, turning life into an inner triumph, or one could ignore the challenge and simply vegetate, as did the majority of the prisoners. We who lived in the concentration camps can remember those who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a person but the last of human freedoms-to chose one’s own attitude in any given set of circumstances- to chose one’s own way.

Viktor Frankl worked as a doctor in the camps and saved many lives. He also set up a mental health unit where he worked to prevent suicides. His family members died in the camps but Frankl survived, and went on to become one of the great Viennese psychiatrists.

Life was not fair to Viktor Frankl, it was what he made it. His choice not to let his anger consume him and to find meaning in the hopelessness of the concentration camp, not only saved his life, it gave hope to countless others who had given up.

When life is unfair to us we have a choice. We can ask why? or what? We can ask “why is this happening to me?” and be angry, or we can ask “what can this experience teach me that will make me a better, more compassionate, more productive human being?”

Life is not fair. It’s time to accept it and get over it. Anger about the unfairness of life only gets us stuck in the past. It’s time to make something of the life we do have, rather than mourn the life we don’t have.

Life isn’t fair, it’s what you make it.

Next time: Your past is not your future if you know that hurting people hurt people and you forgive to be free.

Trying to solve your problems again and again with the same old thinking is also a sign of insanity.

Albert Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

A few years ago I witnessed a perfect example of insanity. On a beautiful spring morning I was sitting in our breakfast nook enjoying a cup of tea when I noticed a chickadee fly into the window in the door of our garage. The little dirty brown bird hit the glass with a thud and dropped to the ground.

A bird flying into a window is not so unusual. What was strange is that after the little fellow shook off the impact of hitting the window he flew up for another try. Once again he whacked the glass with his head and fell to the ground. Then he shook himself off and did it again, and again, and again. For almost 30 minutes the bird tried to fly through the glass into our garage. Now that’s insanity!

But truth be told, I’ve whacked my head up against the same problem again and again a few times myself. Maybe you have too.

If life is dangerous or difficult for us when we are children we learn to live a certain way in order to survive. That thinking and behavior might have pulled us through our dilemma when we were kids but when we’ve tried to solve our current problems with what we did in the past it hasn’t worked.

To keep trying to solve new problems with old thinking and behavior is stubborn and a bit insane!

When I was a boy I felt a lot of anger. I felt angry when kids teased me. I felt angry when my parents fought and dragged me into the middle of it. I felt angry when I was sexually abused.

I learned to stuff my anger because anger was unacceptable in my family and the amount of anger I felt seemed dangerous to me.

So, like the bird hitting the glass, I followed the same line of thinking and repeated the same behavior over and over. I stuffed my anger time and time again. But that didn’t solve my problems. It only made them worse, until one day I exploded with anger. The explosion ruined my marriage and career and didn’t solve my problem.

It took some serious new thinking to appropriately deal with my anger and solve the problems it created. I learned that new thinking from someone older an wiser, someone who knew about anger and its causes.

What problems are you facing today? You can’t solve your problems with the same old thinking. You have to try a new approach.

In order to live out of your imagination, not your history, you have to be willing to change your thinking and behavior.

Find someone who has “been there and done that” successfully and ask them for help. Listen to what they tell you so you can avoid making the same mistakes again and again.

Take it from the bird and me. Insanity is painful and doesn’t work! Stubbornness dooms you to keep reliving yuor past.

You can’t solve your problems with the same old thinking. For your past not to become yur future you have to try some new thinking and behavior.

Next time: Your past is not your future if you accept that life isn’t fair. It’s what you make it.

—

Next time: “Life isn’t Fair, It’s What You Make It”

Your past is not your future! Why should you believe me? What do I know about your past and your future?

Well, honestly, I don’t now anything about your past or future. But I’ve learned some lessons from my own past that I believe will help you move on from your past if you are stuck in it.

Stubbornness, anger, unforgiveness, pain, shame, purposelessness, and fear keep us stuck in the past. I know, they kept me stuck in my past for about 46 years. That’s a long time to be stuck.

One day I realized I could not change my past but I did not have to be stuck in it for the rest of my life. I realized that my past is not my future. That gave me hope. I want to share that hope with you.

You don’t have to wallow in the pain of your past. You don’t have to be held captive by your mistakes, failures, humiliations, or transgressions. You have the power to change the direction of your life. That power comes from the choices you make from this moment forward.

You can’t change the past, but you don’t have to replay it in your mind over and over or repeat it in your behavior again and again.. Author, Stephen Covey, encourages us to “live out of our imagination, not our history.”

You can imagine a different future for yourself, a future that is unlike your past. Once you imagine a different future you have the power to choose it or lose it.

Whatever your past was like, it’s not your future if you choose to live out of your imagination, not your history.

So how do you begin to imagine a different future? How do you begin to live out of your imagination, not your history? How do you make sure that your past does not become your future?

Your past is not your future if you understand that you can’t solve your problems with the same old thinking.

Next time: “You Can’t Solve Your Problems with the Same Old Thinking.”

One day two beggars walked slowly down the road. They were the two elder sons of the widow, and it was clear from their appearance that they had long ago squandered all the gold they had. Astonished to see such a beautiful place, they decided to stop and beg something from the owner.

But when they looked across the fields, they suddenly recognized that the people happily picnicking by the pretty stream were none other than thei very own mother and brother–and a beautiful lady who must be the brother’s wife. Blushing with shame, they quickly picked up their begging sticks and crept away silently.

—

With vision, passion, and perseverance we can accomplish anything. Your gifts: use them or lose them!

“You job is the relentless pursuit of who God made you to be. And anything else you do is sin, and you need to repent.” Pastor Rob Bell

He entered his mother’s room and unrolled the brocade. It gleamed so brightly that the widow gasped and opened her eyes, finding her sight entirely restored. Instantly cured of all illness, she rose for her bed.

Together she and her son took the precious work outside to see it in the bright light. As they unrolled it, a strange, fragrant breeze sprang up and blew upon the brocade, drawing it out longer and longer and wider and wider until at last is covered all the land in sight. suddenly the silken threads trembled and the picture burst into life. Scarlet flowers waved in the soft wind. animals stirred and grazed upon the tender grasses of the vast fields. Golden birds darted in and out of the handsome trees and about the grand white house that commanded the landscape.

It was all exactly as the mother had woven it, except that now there was a beautiful girl in red standing by the fish pond. It was the fairy who had embroidered herself into the brocade.

The kind widow, thrilled with her good fortune, went out among her poor neighbors and asked them to come to live on her new land, and share the abundance of her fields and gardens.

It will not surprise you to learn that the youngest son married the beautiful fairy girl  and they lived together happily for many, many years.

—

Next time: “The Beggars’ Shame”

When the young son work up just before daylight, the fairies had all gone, leaving his mother’s cloth under the shining pearl. Not waiting for daybreak the boy quickly clasped it to his chest and, mounting his horse, galloped off in the waning moonlight. Bending low upon the stallion’s flowing mane and clamping his mouth tightly shut, he passed again through the icy sea and up and down the flaming mountain. Soon he had reached the mountain pass where the old woman stood waiting for him in front of her stone house. Smiling warmly, she greeted him.

“Young man, I see you have come back.”Yes, old woman.” After he dismounted, the woman took his teeth from the horse and put them back in his mouth. Instantly the horse turned back to stone. Then she went inside the house and returned with a pair of deerskin shoes.

“Take these,” she said, “they will get you home.”

When the boy put them on he found he could move as though he had wings. In a moment he was back in his own house.

—

Next time: The Magnificent Brocade

Arriving at Sun Mountain the boy quickly tapped his horse. It reared up and flew with great speed to the door of the palace. The boy got down and entered the front hall. There he found one hundred beautiful fairies , each sitting at a loom and weaving a copy of his mother’s brocade.

The fairies  were all very surprised to se him. One came forth at last and spoke.

“We shall finish our weaving tonight and you may have your mother’s brocade tomorrow. Will it please you to wait here for the night?”

“Yes,” said the son. He sat down, prepared to wait forever if necessary for his mother’s treasure. Several fairies graciously attended him, bringing delicious fruit to refresh him. Instantly all his fatigue disappeared.

When dusk fell, the fairies hung form the center of the ceiling an enormous pearl which shone so brilliantly it lit the entire room. Then while they went on weaving, the youngest son went to sleep.

One fairy finally finished her brocade, but it was not nearly as well done as the one the widow had made. The sad fairy felt she could not part with the widow’s brocade and longed to live in that beautiful human world, so she embroidered a picture of herself on the original work.

—

Next time: The Youngest Son Returns

After three days and nights the youngest son came to Flame Mountain. On every side fires spit forth wildly. The boy stared at the terifying sight, then spurring his horse he dashed courageously up the flaming mountain, enduring the ferocious heat without once uttering a sound.

On the other side of the mountain, he came to a vast sea. Great waves frosted with chunks of ice crashed upon him as he made his way painfully across the freezing water. Though cold and aching, he held the horse’s mane tightly, persisting in his journey without allowing himself to shudder.

Emerging on the opposite shore, he saw at once the Sun Mountain. Warm light flooded the air and flowers blossomed everywhere. On top of the mountain stood a marvelous palace and from it he could hear sounds of girlish laughter and singing.

—

Next time: “Waiting for the Fairies”

After waiting and eaiting for the secnd son to return home, the widow became desperately ill. At last she turned blind from weeping. Still neither of her sons ever came back.

The youngest son, beside himself with worry, begged his mother to let him go in search of the brocade.

“I’ll bring it back to you, Mother, I promise.”

Faint with exhaustion and despair, the widow nodded weakly.

Traveling swiftly, the youngest son took only half a month to arrive at the mountain pass. There he met the old woman in front of the stone house. She told him exactly the same thing that she had told his two brothers, but added, “My son, your brothers each went away with a box of gold. You may have one too.”

With steady firmness the boy refused. “I shall not let these difficulties stop me,” he declared. “I am going to bring back the brocade that took my mother three years to weave.”

Instantly he knocked two teeth out of his mouth and put them into the mouth of the handsome stone horse. The stone horse came alive and went to the tall green tree and ate ten pieces of red fruit hanging from its branches. As soon as it had done this, the horse lifted its elegant head, tossed its silver mane, and neighed. Quickly the boy mounted its back, and together they galloped off toward the east.

—

Next time: “Fire, Water, & Sun”

At home the poor mother waited two months for her eldest son to return, but he did not come back. Gradually her illness got worse. At length she sent her second son to bring the brocade back.

When the boy reached the mountain pass he came upon the old woman at the stone house, who told him the same things she had told his older brother. As he learned all that he must do in order to obtain the brocade, he became frightened and his face paled.

Laughing the old woman offered him a box of gold, just as she had his brother. greatly relieved, the boy took it and went on his way, deciding also to head to the city instead of returning home.

—

Next time: The Youngest Brother’s Quest

The boy asked the old woman, “How can I recover the brocade that the fairies of the Sun Mountain have carried off?”

“That will be very difficult,” said the old woman. “First, you have to knock out two of your front teeth and put them into the mouth of my stone horse. Then he will be able to move and eat the red fruit hanging from this tree. When he has eaten ten pieces, then you can mount him. He will take you directly to the Sun Mountain. But first you will have to pass through the Flame Mountain which burns with a continuous fierceness.”

Here the old woman offered a warning. “You must not utter a word of complaint, for if you do you will instantly be burned to ashes. When you have arrived at the other side, you must then cross an icy sea.” With a grave nod she whispered, “And if you give the slightest shudder, you will immediately sink to the bottom.”

After hearing all this, the eldest son felt his jaw and thought anxiously of the burning fire ans lashing sea waves. He went white as a ghost.

The old woman looked at him and laughed.

“You won’t be able to stand it, I can see,” she said. Don’t go. I’ll give you a small iron box full of gold. Take it and live comfortably.”

She fetched the box of gold from the stone house and gave it to the boy. He took it happily and went away. On his way home he began thinking about all the money he now had. “This gold will enable me to live very well. If I take it home, I will have to share it. Spending it all on myself will be much more fun than spending it no four people.”

He decided right then and there not to go home and turned instead to the path which led to a big city.

—

Next time: “The Woman’s Second Son”

The boy nodded and quickly set out on his journey. After traveling eastward for more than a month, he came to a mountain pass where an old white-haired woman sat in front of a stone house. Beside her stood a handsome stone horse which looked like it longed to eat the red fruit off the pretty tree that grew next to it.

As the eldest boy passed by, the old lady stopped him.

“Where are you going, young man?” she asked.

“East,” he said, and told her the story of the brocade.

“Ah!” she said, ‘the brocade your mother wove has been carried away by the fairies of the Sun Mountain because it was so beautifully made. They are going to copy it.”

—

Next time: “Second Thoughts”

A great wind from the west howled through the house. Catching up the rare brocade it sped through the door and disappeared over the hill. Frantically the mother chased after her beautiful treasure, straight toward the east and in a twinkling it had completely vanished.

The heartbroken mother, unable to bear such a calamity, fell into a deep faint. Carefully her three sons carried her into the house and laid her upon the bed. hours later, after sipping some ginger broth, the widow slowly came to herself.

“My son,” she implored the eldest, “go to the east and find my brocade for me. It means more to me than life.”

—

Next time: “The Old Lady and the Stone Horse”

Day after day the mother continued her weaving. At night she bruned pine branches to make enough light. The branches smoked so much that her eyes became sore and bloodshot. But still she would not stop.

A year passed.

Tears from the mother’s eyes began to drop upon the picture. she wove the crystal liquid into a bright clear river and also into a charming little fish pond.

Another year went by.

Now the tears from the mother’s eyes turned into blood and dropped like red jewels upon the cloth. Quickly she wove them into a flaming sun and into brilliant red flowers.

Houyr after hour without a moment’s stop, the widow went on weaving.

Finally, at the end of the third year, her brocade was done. The mother stepped away from her work and smiled with pride and with great happiness. There it was: the beautiful house, the breathtaking gardens filled with exotic flowers and fruit, the brilliant birds, and beyond in the vast fields sheep and cattle grazing contentedly upon the grass.

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Next time: “Gone with the Wind”

Day and night, moth after month, the mother sat at her loom weaving her silks. Though her back ached and her eyes grew strained from the exacting work, still she would not stop. She worked as if possessed. Gradually the two elder sons became annoyed.

One day the eldest one said with irritation, “Mother, you weave all day but you never sell anything.”

“Yes!” grumbled the second. “And we have to earn money for the rice you eat by chopping wood. We’re tired of all this hard work.”

The youngest son didn’t want his mother to be worried. He told his brothers not to complain and promised that he would look after everything. From then on, every morning he went up to the mountain by himself and chopped enough wood to take care of the whole family.

—

Next time: “Done!”

Gazing at her newly purchased picture the widow sighed, “Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we lived in such a place!”

The two elder sons school their heads and laughed.

“My dear mother, that’s only an idle dream,” said the eldest.

“Perhaps it might happen in the next world,” agreed the second son, “but not in this one.”

Only the youngest one comforted her.

“Why don’t you weave a copy of the picture into a brocade?” he suggested. With a gentle smile on his face, he added, “That will be nearly as good as living in it.”

This thought made the mother very happy. Right away she went out and bought all the colored silk yarns she needed. Then she set up her loom and began to weave the design of the painting into the brocade.

—

“She Worked as If Possessed”